


Until Today

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [78]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November, 2010: France reluctantly helps Scotland celebrate his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Today

**30th November, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
"I think," Scotland said, "it might be a cake."  
  
France squinted at the contents of the box again. "I suppose it could be," he ventured.  
  
Scotland extended one finger, and prodded experimentally at the lumpy, off-white mass, leaving small depressions peppered across its surface. Against France's horrified objections, he licked the tip of his finger afterwards. His eyes screwed tightly closed immediately, mouth puckered in disgust.  
  
"Aye, that definitely tastes like England's attempt at icing." Scotland shuddered slightly. His expression then slowly shifted to something more thoughtful. "Why the hell would he be sending me a cake? Do you think he's trying to poison me?"  
  
"While I wouldn't usually dismiss that out of hand, given the day, don't you think it's more likely a birthday present?"  
  
"Birthday present?" Scotland looked a little shocked at the suggestion. "Look, much as I'd love to give him the benefit of the doubt for once, as I've told you before, we don't really _do_ birthdays."  
  
"I think that could be your name." France leant over, and pointed out a messy blue icing scribble decorating one corner of the 'cake'. Closer to, it gave off a faint odour of fish, and he quickly stepped back again. "Maybe."  
  
Scotland frowned. "But we don't _do_ birthdays," he repeated insistently. "He must be up to something."  
  
"And these look like they might be birthday cards," France said, pushing a handful of brightly-coloured envelopes across the coffee table towards Scotland. "I thought I recognised _Cymru_ 's hand on one of –"  
  
Scotland snatched up the envelope in question before France could finish speaking, and quickly ripped it open. It did indeed contain a birthday card – it had wished the recipient a happy 21st birthday originally, but Wales had scribbled out the 'st' and added two zeros, 'th',  and a chunky exclamation mark in red pen – and four sheets of thick white paper which fluttered to the floor when Scotland cautiously peered inside it. He groaned when he bent to scoop them up.  
  
"A poem," he said, sounding defeated. "He's written me a sodding poem. That's a Christmas thing." His eyes, when he turned them on France, were wide and hazy with confusion. "What the hell's going on, France?"  
  
The question, France presumed, was mostly rhetorical, and not one Scotland expected an answer to. He did have his own suspicions, tentatively constructed from his observations of three brothers' behaviour over the past year. He thought they might, perhaps, in a fumbling, unfocused and, above all, _unspoken,_ way be trying to become closer to one another. Even trying to admit that they sometimes l _iked_ each other, and had survived the experience intact. Scotland would vehemently deny any such conclusions, however, so France simply shrugged.  
  
" _We_ are going to celebrate your birthday, though, aren't we? That is why you invited me today?" It was also, strictly speaking, their anniversary, though France was loath to mention that, as his feelings regarding it were as uncertain as Scotland's were opaque.  
  
Scotland's expression brightened considerably. "Oh aye, this whole birthday thing might be a crock of shit, but if my bosses think it deserves a bank holiday, then I'm damn well going to make the most of it."  
  
Any faint hopes that France might have harboured that 'making the most of it' might involve their returning to bed and emerging only in time to cap the day with dinner in one of Edinburgh's better restaurants, were dashed when Scotland reached over the back of the sofa to grab a horribly familiar battered rucksack.  
  
"We're going hiking, aren't we," he said, heavy with a grim sense of inevitability.  
  
Scotland grinned.

 

* * *

 

 

**30th November, 2010; the Highlands, Scotland  
**

 

  
Scotland's car rattled. And shuddered. And every so often it would make a sudden bang and jolting lurch as though it were perhaps seconds away from exploding in a shower of rust and shreds of worn grey upholstery.

They clattered through a pothole, and something thumped heavily in the boot. Or, at least, France hoped it was the boot, and not the exhaust falling onto the road behind them. He curled his hand more tightly around the door handle beside him.

One of Scotland's hands descended onto France's knee and squeezed gently. "Are you okay, _mo ghradh_?" he asked, shooting France a concerned glance.

"Keep your hands on the wheel, Scotland," France managed to force out past the tight lump of fear that rose suddenly in his throat. He braced his other hand against the glovebox. It felt slightly greasy, but he was able to overcome his instinctual flinch at that, given the circumstances. "And your eyes on the road. Please."

"I know these roads like the back of my hand." Scotland chuckled. "You'll be fine."

France would be more reassured if Scotland didn't habitually drive at least ten miles an hour above the speed limit whatever the road conditions, and his car wasn't held together by strips of gaffer tape and sheer good luck.

"Please," he repeated, more plaintively, closing his eyes.

Scotland sighed in a thoroughly put upon manner, but he did let go of France's knee. Eventually.

 

* * *

 

For a while after getting out of the car, France was warmed from within by the simple pleasure of having survived three hours of Scotland's driving.

It was only a very little while, as the wind was bitterly cold, stinging with the promise of snow, and seemed to find every tiny gap in the voluminous coat Scotland had bought him to wear on expeditions such as this.

It also caught at the hem of Scotland's plain walking kilt, lifting it slightly, and on a normal day, France would be quietly delighted by the brief flashes of skin it revealed, but instead his eyes were drawn to the way Scotland's knees were already mottled red with the cold. He shivered involuntarily, but quickly suppressed it, knowing that if Scotland noticed, he would insist on giving up his own coat or one of his many jumpers no matter how much France might protest.

Scotland's attention, however, was completely focused on his map. After a moment's silent contemplation, he passed it to France.

The route marked upon it seemed very long, and something of France's dismay must have shown on his face despite his attempt to mask it, as Scotland patted him supportively on the shoulder. "It's only six and a half miles, and mostly flat, you'll be fine."

Six and a half miles didn't sound like the gentle stroll Scotland had been promising earlier, but when France pointed that out, Scotland simply laughed. "I bet you do more than that on one of your shopping trips, all told, and you never complain. Come on, we'd better get a move on or we'll be coming back in the dark."

 

* * *

 

It began raining when they were less than half a mile from the car.

Sleeting, France corrected himself, as it started settling in sodden little piles along the creases in his coat sleeves.

"Perhaps we should set back," France suggested, "if it's going to snow."

"Naw, it's far too cold for snow," Scotland said cheerfully, ignoring the obvious hint.

"Of course," France muttered, adjusting the straps of his rucksack. They were already starting to dig into his shoulders, despite the fact that it was almost empty.

Scotland paused for a moment, and tipped his head back so that he was staring up at the heavy grey sky. "It's bracing," he said, taking a long, deep breath. "Makes you feel more alive."

It made France cold, wet and vaguely angry at all parts of the world that didn't have a roof, but it was Scotland's birthday and he seemed happy, so he bit his tongue and forbore to comment.

 

* * *

 

Scotland knew a lot about the flora, fauna, and geological features of his land, and enjoyed sharing that knowledge. Unfortunately, to France's mind, he seemed to feel a special affinity towards the less impressive specimens of the same, inexplicably drawn towards lichens, disgusting wriggly things that lived in rotten logs, and scrubby little plants of the non-flowering variety,

He had crouched down beside a particularly dreary example of the last with a soft sound of pleasure several minutes earlier, and begun regaling France with a detailed lecture on its life cycle and growing patterns. France had tried to remain interested for the first minute or so, but his eyes soon began wandering despite himself, taking in the trees, rutted path and rapidly descending fog, before reluctantly returning to Scotland once more.

Something about his expression stirred a very old memory to the surface of France's mind. Many centuries ago, Scotland – Alba, then – used to gather together objects that caught his eye to show France whenever he visited. A river-smooth stone, perhaps, or a gnarled piece of driftwood which looked like some sort of animal if viewed from exactly the right angle. His demeanour when he displayed his 'treasures' had always been the same then: all shy eagerness and a desperate hope to impress. France had, he recalled, never been much impressed, and rarely bothered to pretend otherwise.

That thought compelled him to point out another equally boring looking plant nearby and ask Scotland to tell him about it. The broad smile he received in return was almost enough to make the sacrifice worthwhile on its own.

 

* * *

 

  
"You should have worn your boots more, like I told you to," Scotland said as he slipped off France's left boot. "Broken in the leather a bit."

"And when would I have the occasion, exactly?" France snapped back. "I don't usually have cause to tramp around the wilderness without you."

Scotland smirked and rolled his eyes at the word 'wilderness'. "You could have just worn them around your apartment, you know."

France was quietly horrified by the thought of the boots coming anywhere near his pristine cream carpets, or beautifully-polished wood floors, but he nodded agreement nevertheless to curtail any further admonishments.

"Let's have a look, then," Scotland said, apparently appeased for the moment. He lifted France's foot into his lap and gently peeled off his sock.

It felt as though he was peeling at least one layer of skin off with it, and France sucked in a surprised gasp through pain-gritted teeth in response. Scotland winced sympathetically, and ran his thumb in soothing circles over the curve of France's ankle as he inspected his foot.

"You've got some nasty blisters coming up," he said. "I can see why you're finding it difficult to walk."

This observation, to France's disappointment, did not lead to a suggestion that they cut their hike short as he had hoped. Instead, Scotland swaddled his feet in what seemed like hundreds of plasters, and found him a thicker pair of socks to wear from somewhere in the depths of his bag.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Scotland started carrying France's rucksack as well as his own.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes after that, France relented and finally accepted Scotland's repeated offer of his gloves and one of his jumpers. The jumper was an eye-searing shade of green, but warm from Scotland's body and as soft as butter, which forgave it all of it's other sins, for that moment, at least.

 

* * *

 

The muscles in France's thighs felt as though someone was slowly pushing red hot needles into them. It served as a stark counterpoint to the icy chill of every single inch of his exposed skin. There was some small blessing to be found in the fact that the pain in his feet wasn't quite as acute, he supposed, but the way they were throbbing did give the impression that they were about to undergo some hitherto unknown physiological reaction and explode.

"Only three miles to go," Scotland shouted back encouragingly when he noticed France was no longer at his side.

For the sake of their relationship, France considered it fortunate that he didn't seem able to draw a deep enough breath to voice the reply he would have liked to give.

 

* * *

 

A mile later, France's boots had started taking on water – "I did say you should waterproof them, didn't I?" was Scotland's only reaction to that, and it took all of France's meagre remaining reserves of strength to resist pushing him face down in a puddle for it – his hair was a bedraggled nest directing icy rivulets running down his back by way of his collar, and, judging by the smell, he had recently stepped into some particularly unpleasant part of nature.

When he found himself tripping over his own feet because they were so cold he couldn't feel them anymore, he snapped.

"That's enough," he said to the world at large, because his streaming eyes had reduced his vision to a muddied swirl of greens and greys that he couldn't pick Scotland out from. "I can't go any further."

He sat down heavily, not even caring where he ended up, but it seemed the universe was kind enough to provide a large, flat rock below to save him from having to commune any more closely with the all-encompassing mud than he already had. It didn't save him from bruising his tail bone by landing on it too hard, but it seemed churlish to complain about the limits of small miracles.

Scotland's footsteps squelched closer. "It's only –"

"If you finish that sentence with 'two miles', _Écosse_ , then I won't be held responsible for my actions."

Scotland had the nerve to snigger, and France glared daggers in the direction of the pinkish blur he presumed was his face. The blur dipped lower, and then one of Scotland's palms was pressed against France's cheek, the other brushing his dripping hair away from his eyes.

"I could always carry you the rest of the way, if you like."

"You will not," France said sharply, because that was an indignity too far even for someone, he had to admit, who was only a short step away from throwing a tantrum.

"Well, I can't bring the car up here, so it's either being carried or walking. Your choice."

It wasn't much of a choice at all, and France sighed resignedly. "I suppose I can walk," he conceded. "Although maybe I can have a moment to catch my breath first?"

"No problem." Scotland's hands slipped away from France's face, and then he sat down on the rock beside him, sliding along until their sides were pressed close together. "Take as long as you need."

"Thank you," France said, reaching out to lace his fingers together with Scotland's. Scotland's fingers were like icicles, so cold that France could feel it radiating through both pairs of gloves he was wearing. He would give Scotland's back if he didn't already know that the other nation would refuse to take them.

"No, thank you," Scotland said, voice low and warm. "For agreeing to come with me, I mean. I know you hate this sort of thing even when it's not raining."

France had spent the last few decades trying to spend as little time in the countryside as possible, but he'd meant every last word of his promise to compromise a year ago. Consequently, he felt magnanimous enough to shrug. "It is your birthday. How could I not agree?"

Scotland was silent for a time, but then said tentatively, "It's not just my birthday, though, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's –" Scotland cut himself off with a small cough, and started rummaging around in his rucksack. A moment later, he unceremoniously shoved something into France's hand. "Look, I was going to keep this as a surprise until we got back to the car, but maybe it'll give you the incentive to keep going."

France knuckled the tears and rainwater out of his eyes, and looked down at the slim booklet Scotland had given him.

"It's a restaurant near here. In a hotel. Michelin starred," Scotland said as France opened it. "I thought we could go there for a meal later. You know, for our anniversary. If you want to, that is."

A little shocked, France glanced up from his perusal from the truly delicious-sounding menu. Scotland's face was flushed far redder than the weather conditions could account for, and his eyes were shadowed, flicking away from France's almost as soon as they made contact. He looked thoroughly embarrassed to be making the offer, as though he expected it to be refused, although France was unable to comprehend why on earth Scotland might think he would turn down the chance to dine in a top restaurant.

"Well, we can always say it's for my birthday, if you don't like the idea of the anniversary thing," Scotland continued, clearly reading something other than confusion into France's hesitation. "And don't worry about your clothes, because I packed us some smart ones to change into -" luggage, France supposed, was what had been banging around in the back of Scotland's car, and not some essential part of its mechanics working its way free – "and booked us a room there so we can grab a shower and so on –"

France stopped him with a kiss, as deep as he could manage with lips so numb he could barely move them. He had already noted the price of the hotel's rooms, and they were so far above what Scotland was usually prepared to pay for just about anything that it rendered what was an already romantic gesture ridiculously so, and was certainly incentive enough that two more miles seemed like no great distance, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> \- It's very unlikely it would only be Scotland's 2100th birthday, but Wales was making a wild stab in the dark.


End file.
